The following is from Robert Aickman's story collection, Compulsory Games. Robert Aickman (1914–1981) wrote eight collections of self-described "strange stories," as well as the novel The Late Breakfasters and the posthumously published novella The Model. An advocate for preserving and restoring England's canal system, in 1946 he cofounded the Inland Waterways Association.

During the thirties Jessica Yarrow had found a publisher for no fewer than four volumes of verses, and the pleasant little parties in her studio had led to her being regarded with affection by many of themoresubduedBohemians;butnow,itbeing1941,shehadbeen intheWomen’sLand Armyfornearlyayear,andseemedtohave onlyasinglefriendintheworld,herresignedfellow-sufferer,Bunty Baines, daughter of a veterinary surgeon in Shropshire, and one to whom animals and the land seemed truly the order of nature. Mr. Honister, the farmer, a widower and a Methodist, worked both of themasstrenuouslyandassystematicallyashecould.AtChristmas, evenBuntyhadrevoltedatthesombre,elderlyfestivities(towhich, moreover,theyhadbarelybeeninvited);andthetwowomenfound themselvesonalonglonelywalktogetheracrossthebulrush-green fells.Theirlandgirls’costumestoodthemingoodsteadagainstthe heavy,ranginggustswhichblewfromhorizontohorizoneveryother minute, but they had been able neither to bring much food nor to find shelter in which to eat with comfort the little they had. They had eaten as they walked; but they had started early in the hope of avoidingarguments,andoncemorewerehungrywhen,shortlyafter half-pastthree,theheavywindfulfilleditsthreatofheavyrain.

The two women ran towards it, down and up the intervening fold in the hills.

The windows were boarded up, but there were the remains of a primitiveverandah.Thetwowomenpressedthemselvesagainstthe black dilapidated woodwork while the rain beat at them. It was darkeningallthetimewiththepremature-seemingdarknessofChristmasDay.

SuddenlyJessicanoticedthatthedoorofthehutwasopen.Standinginitwasaverylargeelderlywomanwithgreyhairdrawnback into a bun, and strong bony features. She was muffled in a vague, navy-bluewrapper,andappearedindifferent,perhapshabituated,to the weather. She was looking at the two land girls from grey commandingeyes.

Jessica, faithful to the habits of a lifetime, was combing her wet hair.Shefounditimpossibletoseeinherlittlemirror.Shesaidnothingbut“Godknows.”

“Iwonderifshe’sgoodforanegg,”continuedBunty.“Icoulduse anegg.”

“Nohens,”saidJessica,tryingtosmartenhertie.

In a moment the elderly woman was laying tea on the dustycarpenter’sbench.Thecheapwhitechinawaschippedandcracked;the teapot spout jagged as a broken tooth. The genteel penny bazaar kniveswereserratedandrusty.

The elderly woman was silently watching them from her grey commanding eyes.

“Attheelderlywoman’scall,theremainingdoorintheroomopened forthefirsttimeanddisclosedasmallbentfigureinworkingclothes . . .Hishandswereshinywith beeswax. He nodded affably to each of the land girls in turn, then beckoned.”

“I’m so sorry. My friend and I both take milk.” The elderly woman nodded and retired.

“Comeaway,”saidJessica,moresoftlythanamouse.“Bringyour mackintosh.”

ButBuntywastighteningherbelt,andthisdelayedthem,sothat beforetheycouldreachthedoorthewomanwasback.Buntyscreamed sharply. The woman had discarded her navy blue wrapper and was dressedintheuniformofanold-fashionedpolicewoman,withtunic and long skirt. Jessica associated the costume with the previous worldwar.

Attheelderlywoman’scall,theremainingdoorintheroomopened forthefirsttimeanddisclosedasmallbentfigureinworkingclothes. Occasionallonggreylockshungfromunderhisblackclothcapand his trousers were strapped beneath the knees. His face was old and yellow,buthewassmilinglikeMr.Punch.Hishandswereshinywith beeswax. He nodded affably to each of the land girls in turn, then beckoned.

“I should have a look,” advised the elderly woman. Neither of the girls moved.

The inner room was lighted by four tallow candles, the bases of whichhadbeenliquefiedandstuckonthefloor.Placedsothatthere wasacandleoneachsideofthem,weretwoopencoffins.Theyseemed madeofthesamedarkwoodastherestoftheplace,andtheywere deeply and newly padded with glossy, blood-red satin. Set upright behind them stood their tops, each with a polished and engraved silver plate, which reflected rectangles of light from the candles on to the wooden walls of the room. The elderly woman was again in thedoorwaybehindthetwolandgirls.

“I’mquite agreeable,Hagan,”said Mr.Honeyman.“Afterall,I only work on Christmas Day.”

It was beginning to thunder.

“Look atthis,”criedMr. Honeymaninhiscrackedtriumphant voice. He had laid down the knife and was bringing up a wheeled objectfromtheduskycornerofthelittleroom.Itwasheavilythough tastelesslycarvedinthesamedarkwood.

“Youdon’tseeathinglikethateveryday.”

He was standing behind the cabinet, so that only his head and yellow face appeared above it.

“It’s full of live silkworms. They’re necessary in my business.” As he spoke he was unrolling a bale of soft white silk.

SuddenlyJessica’shands,rough from thefields,wereround the oldman’sthroat.Inamomentthelongthinknifewashers.

Instantlytheelderlywomanwasblowingherpolicewhistle.She blewrendingly,mercilessly,untilitseemedthattheelementsoutside the tiny dark cabin picked up the alarum. There was a screaming, cleaving crash and a bright white light. The storm had struck the exposedhut.Orperhapsithadnotbeenthunderbutguns.